Charlie is all undressed and ready for the shower. He teases the water with his wrist and, finding the temperature pleasant, yanks free the showerhead lever. One foot in the tub, he turns to find his daughter doddering into the bathroom, her protectively stooped-over mama in tow. They are both smiling, as is Charlie.
Acknowledging his daughter with a wink, Charlie again prepares to immerse himself in his utopia of synthetic rain before he notices her pointing at his junk, his bits, his thing. Ever the educator, at least in his mind’s eye, he pauses to deliberate how best to describe this thing of which his daughter is entirely unfamiliar.
'That’s daddy’s doodle,' Charlie says, cheerfully; his daughter responds with a frown and reaches for it.
'No, no - it’s not a handle,' he says, obscuring his manhood with a turn of his hip. 'Not for you.'
She maintains her expression, a frown that pulls her gaze down to the centre of her own pants. He can see the little gears turning in her head and decides that a little more elucidation is in order; clarity, he thinks, is the path to knowledge.
'It’s like a wall-plug,' he says, gesturing at mama’s hair dryer lying dormant on the sink. 'You’re not allowed to touch mama’s hair dryer, right?'
She shakes her head, grasping that particular point before looking again at her own downstairs-region. Charlie smiles at this and continues his analogy.
'You have an outlet. Theoretically, it fits together with a wall-plug. Or,' he continues, using the hair dryer’s electrical cord as a demonstration, 'if I have a prong, you have a prong-hole.'
This statement hangs in the air long enough for mama’s face to stretch into a grimace.
'It’s one of the main differences between boys' - here he spreads his hand on his chest - 'and girls.'
Charlie points to his daughter to accent his description, then to her mama, whose concern is as evident as her cheeks are crimson.
'It’ll make more sense when you’re older,' he says dismissively. To her mama, he says, 'Relax, honey.'
Mama leads the child from the bathroom, and Charlie steps into his shower grinning, rinsing away mama’s chagrin like so much grime.
* * *
'You should hear what your daughter’s been saying,' mama says as Charlie walks in the door. Just home from work, his expectation is to be regaled with a symphony of polysyllabic words, and he slaps his hands on his knees, bending to his daughter’s level in anticipation.
'Daddy’s doodle,' she says, excitedly pointing at her crotch, 'goes here!'
All colour flushes from Charlie’s face as he rises abruptly, standing rigid in horror.
'I just got a call from daycare,' mama says. 'It seems she’s spent the better part of today running around screaming that at the other children.'
'Oh fuck,' Charlie says, looking at his daughter and quickly correcting himself: 'Phooey,' he spits.
'The daycare people, as you can imagine,' mama continues, 'are far from pleased.'
'You’re kidding,' Charlie says sarcastically, turning to his daughter. 'Daddy’s doodle does not go in there, sweetheart, you understand? Not even close, nowhere near, NEVER - all right?'
His daughter’s face scrunches into another frown before lighting up with joy: 'Daddy’s doodle - doodle-oodle-oodle!'
She pokes at her diaper and giggles and giggles and giggles…
'Well,' says Charlie, demoralized. 'I’m going to get my ducks in a row before Children’s Aid gets here.' He starts and stops, finally turning to mama: 'Why can’t you stop me from being stupid, hon?'
'I don’t know what’s wrong with you,' she sighs, gathering documentation of her own. 'From here on out, always remember: your doodle is for pee-pee and absolutely nothing else.'
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